


heat and solid, statues

by meios



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, First Time, Oral, PWP, Sex, Smut, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She does this, often: Her fingers linger upon his own, along his neck, his jaw, the private moments stolen and replaced with fitful dreams of longing that leave him spent in the mornings, stammering of a teenage boy left in Fereldan years ago spilling from his lips. There is always a crooked smile that serves as a response to this, a bite to the bottom lip—hers are painted green, the color turning her eyes even brighter, all nature and burning fire.</p><p>There are whispers in his ears accompanied by soft laughter, white hair cut short and barely tamed, all wild curls like silk, standing every which way in a sort of calculated chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heat and solid, statues

Fingers linger where breath does not as she takes the papers, agonizingly slow, as if her limb is magnetically drawn to his, dark against light skin like contrasts she has only ever read about, and when strange, almost unnatural orange eyes catch golden ones, there is a quirk to her smile, pulling at the scar running deep like a river along her jaw, but beautiful. White teeth     and a pink tongue and there is only so much to hide within, but she accomplishes this with ease, dropping her voice to say, “Thank you, Commander,” before turning on her heel and leaving, slowly, her robes sweeping behind her, a procession for a queen.

 

And she leaves him there, flesh tingling where magic has brushed it, vibrating like palpable energy, thrumming, alive. His lungs have been stolen, perhaps, leaving in her wake, tantalized by that which tempts him so. He gathers himself, needlessly fixing the fur pauldrons draped across his shoulders, leather gloves too heavy and thick. Countenance scarlet, he leaves, pausing before stepping back over the threshold to his quarters.

 

She does this, often: Her fingers linger upon his own, along his neck, his jaw, the private moments stolen and replaced with fitful dreams of longing that leave him spent in the mornings, stammering of a teenage boy left in Fereldan years ago spilling from his lips. There is always a crooked smile that serves as a response to this, a bite to the bottom lip—hers are painted green, the color turning her eyes even brighter, all nature and burning fire.

 

There are whispers in his ears accompanied by soft laughter, white hair cut short and barely tamed, all wild curls like silk, standing every which way in a sort of calculated chaos.

 

Once, she had asked him if he had taken any vows of chastity. He remembers his voice disappearing, his throat obstructed with a lump that he had to cough away to clear; he remembers half-lidded eyes and internal questioning as to her motives. Her hands, long, spindly, palms calloused from the wooden staff she had always carried, had been clasped behind her back. She had appeared to be more like a cat finally adapting to their environment after having been so wary, so scared, for so long—it had been a month since the skies had been torn open and bathed in Fade-touched green.

 

And she had, like she continues to do, played with him so easily. He is putty in her grasp, molded with her sweet-grass words and the magic running wantonly throughout her body, hidden behind thick robes and thicker skin, and she is indomitable.

 

In the tavern air, she leans over and kisses his cheek when she has had too much ale, laughing merrily as she does the same to the Tevinter, to the Qunari, the Seeker, who blinks once in confusion and then smiles. In her wake, there is scalding, fire, the alcohol seeming all too comforting now, and he dodges the pointed look that the Tevinter throws him by studying the contents: light ale, half gone. He has had enough of it to feel unnatural warmth throughout his veins, a sort of fuzziness at the edges of his vision.

 

“Do you need a map?” asks the Tevinter after she leaves, accompanied by the Seeker, a companionable arm slung over her shoulders.

 

“E-excuse me?” he responds, a flush overtaking him, as per usual. The ale makes it easier, he supposes, but he can feel the heat of his cheeks, wonders if he looks like a strange kind of plant now—deadly and embarrassing.

 

“A map,” the other man repeats, taking the seat next to him, and he is rather beautiful, too, smelling of spices and books, of wine, but when the man touches him, there is no fire there, not like her. An index finger underneath his chin, amused eyes meeting confusion. “Because you are _so_ lost, Commander.”

 

The Commander shrugs him off, downing the last of his ale and setting the mug back on the table, standing carefully. There is a waver in his stance, but only minutely; he can still feel her lips on his cheek, burning. “I’ll thank you to just leave it be, Dorian,” he says, and he moves to leave.

 

“She really can’t get more obvious than that! Before long, she’ll be in your office na—”

 

“I-I don’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about.”

 

“Evidently.”

 

The door closes behind him and the night air greets him like a lover, open arms and open kisses and he can see the glimmer of candlelight from her bedroom window, one of the few that remain illuminated in this late hour. He could run there, of course, possibly trip over a step and bloody his nose in the process, but he could throw himself up the stairs, in theory, and find her in her bed, whispering _finally_ under her breath as she goes to him, meets him, and her fire-mouth could kiss him until he suffocates.

 

All whispered conversations in the back of the tavern and memories of places that had once meant so much to them, recollections of stories untold, shared glasses of wine after a hard fought victory, hips bumping along a table, little flags everywhere, hands roaming, flower soft eyes. She touches him and he burns and there is nothing that he can do besides embrace the flames.

 

She duels with the fake Warden, practice swords, in the morning, one hand behind her back, her arm outstretched, wobbling only slightly, and as the Warden, Blackwall, makes the first move, she dodges flawlessly, though the attempt at parrying falls short, the sword being knocked from her hand. He swipes a hit at her side, resulting in a pained groan and then laughter, and she grabs the wooden blade of the sword to pull him in and then away from her, kicking him in the behind for good measure.

 

She beams and they go again.

 

The sun shines brighter and brighter when midday hits, when they break for their water skins, and she is embraced in the breeze that flows through her fortress. She wipes the sweat from her brow and catches him watching from the battlements above, waving at him once before picking up the practice staff—a piece of wood, nothing more—and rapping Blackwall across the back with it.

 

And she is more formidable with her staff, blocking swings with much more ease, with a grace that almost makes her appear to be floating, gliding across the grass in bare feet and dirt-covered trousers. The sounds of wood hitting wood reverberate across Skyhold. He watches until one of his men arrives with reports.

 

Hidden in the papers is a note, scrawled in a practiced penmanship, curling, deliberate. _She’s waiting, Curly. –V_ it reads. He crumbles it up and sighs, leaving it amongst the mess of his desk, and, well, he _knows_. He knows and he understands and that is the _point_ of this little game they play, he thinks: she visits him in the evenings for tales and reports, words like pawns on a chessboard, white and black and white, all in a row before moving, killing themselves for their kings and queens and such.

 

There is checkmate and then a victory, a loss, dancing around one another until a weakness shows, resolve weakening at every shared and stolen moment. They press too closely, enough for breaths to intermingle, and then they come apart.

 

And when his door opens, when the moon is high, she is clean. Soft, warm; what little hair she has is fluffy upon her head, and there is no make-up, no paint upon her lips, no, and her gown is thin, lovely, simple. She leans against the door when he looks up, smiles, a finger pressed to her chin as she scrutinizes him.

 

“May I, um, help you, Inquisitor?” he asks. He sets down his quill and corks his inkwell and waits, but there is no answer, and he pulls at his gloves lest they get in the way of him attempting to put his entire foot in his mouth as he tries, “You—you handle the sword quite well.”

 

“Oh?” she smiles, wider, amusement emanating from her like an aura. “I have been told that, yes. My fondness for _swordplay_ has been a guilty pleasure of mine since I was a girl.”

 

The Commander, Cullen, clears his throat some, and he thanks the Maker that he is still sitting, able to conceal the way his knees tremor slightly, at the way his gut clenches at the sight of her, at the very presence of such a woman. He runs a hand through his hair, searches for words that do not exist.

 

He can only return her smile and pray that this is enough.

 

“But, alas, I did come here with a question,” she sighs, and here is where she pushes herself from the door, where he stands to meet her halfway, and she is beautiful, so beautiful, up close. “Though, it is of a rather… personal nature.” Orange eyes like flames blink up at him, and it is so strange to be here, alone, so vulnerable with not a piece of armor in sight, no walls, no blockades, no blood, no fear. There is a quietness to how she raises a hand and rests it upon his cheek, to how he leans into it without question, and she is heat and he is solid, statues.

 

“My attention is yours, Inquisitor,” he whispers.

 

His heartbeat must be so loud now, like a rush in his inner ears, all blood pumping and tension rising, squeezing his stomach like a vice, but her fingertips are simple ghosts tracing his cheekbone, tucking an imaginary hair behind his ear. “I wonder,” she begins, gentle, “if I am overstepping your boundaries?” And her stare returns to him, like a hawk, like prey, no, like—like worry, questions upon questions going untold, and he can only take her hand, turn to kiss it, because it is the right thing to do.

 

“Never,” he murmurs, and this must be a dream, this must be a trick, a joke, and this is the punch-line, but there is no laughter, no humiliation, no, just the Inquisitor slipping her fingers through his, intertwining, squeezing.

 

“May I ask you another question, then?” she asks, and he can hear the slight accent in her words now, the waver in the metronome of her tone, and he nods, and she says, “Kiss me?”

 

And he does, without question.

 

She fits against him as if she is meant to be there, pressed flush against her, strong hands cradling her face, taking her in, and she tastes like cinnamon, like nutmeg, and Cullen crowds her, engulfs her until she has walked backwards into one of his bookshelves, her hands over his and then around his neck, tugging him down until there is no air left alone, nothing that is not shared, felt mutually.

 

He kisses her with a passion, devours her, for words are difficult whereas actions are straightforward, simple to interpret, and he cannot help his greed when it comes to the way her mouth slots against his, the way she nips at his bottom lip, only to gasp sharply when he deepens everything even more, sucks on her tongue, revels in how she clings to him. And there is a soft whimper when he draws away, immediately magnetized to her neck, to her jaw, and he takes his time here, no rush, for this is no dream, and she only shudders at every brush, every bite, every moment of his presence.

 

“C-Cullen, _please_ ,” falls from her lips, and he moves back a centimeter, kissing his way back to her mouth, forehead resting against hers. Her eyes are molten, glossed over and heavy-lidded, and she tugs at his hair in an attempt to kiss her again, and Maker, it has been over a year since they had met, since she had become a miracle in the light of a catastrophe, and in the fire of holy sin, she had carried herself proudly, unfaltering.

 

She is solid and he is heat and the flames lick the stones in an attempt to be them, and when his hands drift downwards, tentative, her breathing goes haggard, her skin like gooseflesh when he touches her through the thin material of her sleeping gown, her breasts free from the band she keeps them in during the day. Cullen captures her responding moan in a kiss, her back arching into him, eager and open and _alive_.

 

Her nipples grow erect at his thumbs sweeping over them, and as he massages the mounds, his thigh slips in between her legs, and he moves back to her neck, to her ear, “No smallclothes, my Lady?” A smile dances across his mouth when she shakes her head, red feathering over her high cheeks; she is beautiful, she is _remarkable_ , she is perfection, the very reincarnation of Andraste, and he tells her that he wants to worship her right here, wants to break her apart and put the pieces back together, wants to drink from her very essence, to take all that she wishes to give him, so long as he does the same for her.

 

He whispers her name as he has in his dreams, _Desiderata_ , _desired_ and _wished_ and she nods, murmurs something about a bed, and it is all he can do to move away from her to allow her to lead the way, and the lack of body heat, the lack of her scent, her touch, her everything, elicits a small, barely audible whine from him, one from her for what he hopes is the same reason. And yet, she still climbs the ladder to his loft with grace, even as her hands and knees tremble, and he wonders to himself, fleetingly, just how he is allowed to be so lucky.

 

At the top, Desiderata kisses him hungrily, tugging him in by the collar of his tunic, his hands finding the swell of her hips, of her behind, and squeezing, exploring because he can now, he is free to map out every inch of her, from the ripples of her rib cage to the edges of her fingernails, to every freckle on her face, and his heart soars as he backs her up to his bed, as her knees buckle and then strengthen and then her legs are around his waist and he has caught her.

 

He squeezes her ass again, taking note of the way that her hips sputter in reply, and she pulls away to suck a mark into his neck, to bring about a rough moan akin to a lion’s roar, and she chuckles and he whispers, “Maker,” into her hair.

 

And he sets her down at the edge of his bed, drops to his knees before her, and to her understanding curse, he grins, pushing the skirt of her gown up her thighs, settling over her hips, and with a hum, he kisses the skin leading to her center, stubble bringing about a redness to her inner thighs, and he brings her legs over his shoulders the closer he gets, and she is wet and she is sweet and she is whole.

 

He tongues her slowly, dipping into her cunt until she is a boneless mess above him, one hand in her hair while the other cups her breast, pulling him closer until he is suffocating, groaning as he tastes her again and again. She is sweet and she is wet and she is whole and Cullen palms himself through his trousers when she grinds against him, soundless moans, just her mouth fallen open, his nose bringing friction to her pearl, his tongue going deeper, curling, and her slick is all of him now. She is all of him, encompassing his very being, his core, and when she comes, trembling and biting on her knuckle, he is so hard, so hot against his own palm that simple touch is not enough, that bucking into himself is not enough, and she pulls him upward before he can fully draw back, wipe his face on the back of his sleeve, and she kisses him like a woman starved and she falls back with him.

 

Her fingers curl around the hem of his shirt, pulling insistently, and he relents, wiping his face only then before tossing it away, magic tingling, transferring warmth to him when she touches, like marks being left in her wake. She kisses his chest, leaning up to do so, like she is memorizing every inch of her, and though she still twitches, legs shaky, oversensitive, she pauses to look up at him, orange eyes meeting gold.

 

And he knows that he is melting, knows that he is so malleable when it comes to Desiderata that when he pulls her back up to kiss her fully once more, that this is different, because here, titles do not matter any. His arms wrapped around her, they are nothing but souls, but magic and none; Cullen moves to rid her of the dress, and she relents, arms going up to help him.

 

She is curvy, though the year and some odd months of trekking through mountains and forests have brought on a good bit of muscle, her body toned, lean, her breasts small. He mouths at the areola, at her nipple, his palm embracing the other, as she breathes out his name.

 

And she whispers of holding flames, of having less than an idea concerning how to approach him, of wishing the stolen glances and lingering touches to be more, of how much she had wanted to hold him, comfort him. She compares him to the very fire she embodies, to the beauty of the moon, her hand in his hair as he kisses down her stomach, tracing every rib bone with his tongue.

 

Her eyelashes cradle her gaze when he smiles up at her, takes her hand and kisses her palm; he chuckles softly when her fingers curl through his, squeezes. Cullen straightens, then, releasing himself from her grip in favor of unlacing his trousers, of shoving them and his smalls down his thighs and off of his legs, patience waning at the heavy rise and fall of her chest, and when he covers her, hands on either side of her head, she captures his mouth, full lips moving slowly against his own, teeth biting at him with a sharpness that only goes to his groin like a lightning strike.

 

And he has a hand on himself now, has to, needs to press the head against her entrance, still wet, too wet, and Desiderata can only whimper as he hesitates for a moment’s breath, and she falls apart when he presses inside, her cunt tight and hot; he sheathes himself within her, breaking their kiss in order to bury his face into the crook of her neck, the very idea of this alone enough to steal the breath from his lungs, as they habitually do when she is concerned.

 

The pace he finds is achingly slow, though, unable to allow his frayed nerves to get the better of him, to make this too quick, too rushed, but every thrust is deep, meaningful, deliberate, and he aims to raise a sound from her with every movement. Victorious, though he is, his own resolve follows through, and the both of their breaths come out in bursts, ragged, greedy like a miser when they kiss again, messy and hungry and without a true care.

 

And oh, he touches her, keeping himself aloft with one arm, the other finding her breast, her stomach, down until the pads of his fingers find her clitoris, and the way that she jolts, back arched and muscles tensed, ignites a brighter fire inside of him. He circles it with a fury, though his thrusts remain slow, and it is as if the noise is punched out of the bedroom.

 

It is only the two of them, no one else in the world; time has stilled itself.

 

The bed moves beneath them with each roll of his hips, her fingernails dragging up his back, sharp and indignant as he engulfs her, forehead resting against hers, and it hurts, to be this close to someone, to be this infatuated, to be this in love—

 

When she comes, she mouths swears, mouths his name, the very memory of her voice locked away in favor of more air to breathe, but she clenches around him, all tension and starlight and magic swirling somewhere at the surface, and he grows erratic at the very toe of the finish line. He comes with a broken moan, voice cracking, limbs like mud as they tremor and give out from underneath him, and the come down is shaky at best, stars decorating the insides of his eyes as he nuzzles into Desiderata’s neck.

 

She says nothing, only rests her palm against his nape, and Maker, she is still catching her breath, and she whines when he finally pulls out of her, as if the emptiness is a personal insult, shivers when he pulls her close upon lying down next to her, bodies pressed flush, sweat beading at her brow when he draws back to look at her.

 

He presses a kiss to her jawline, another to her mouth, for to see the Inquisitor speechless, to know that the reason is him, to still feel her, to smile at how she turns her head and kisses him soundly, is something irreplaceable.

 

She is fire and he is earth, and her hand finds his and squeezes.


End file.
